


I got you

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Comfort Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fear of Heights, Furiosa POV, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Max POV, Porn with Feelings, So are feelings, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, heights are scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: He wants to do this. Why is it so hard to let him?Inspired byyoukaiyume'sgorgeous NSFW art.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For people not comfortable with heights: jump to "When she drops the last metre to the ground" if you'd rather not read about Furiosa up a high tower, and to "The Mothers have always rolled their eyes" to avoid all discussion of heights.

Furiosa is up on the windmill tower, perched on the small maintenance platform. The air feels bright and sharp, high above the noise and smells of the Citadel. 

She has two spare parts strapped to her back. This windpump was damaged in last night’s stormy weather – not even a full storm, which suggests a weakness somewhere in the construction. One blade was ripped right off. Her best metalworker spent the day straightening it, smoothing out the crumples and mending its fastenings, ready to be reattached. Another is still hanging from the pump's circle of blades, swinging in a way that must be fixed before the wind picks up again.

The blades look much bigger, up here. The two on her back are heavy, long enough to limit how she can move her legs. She unties them, sets them down on the platform and starts inching out to get the damaged one. The circle won’t take her full weight, beyond a certain point – she knows that, knows roughly where the break point is – but so long as she stays near the centre, she should be able to reach and undo the last fastenings.

Before the revolution, she’d always enjoyed this kind of repair work, though she’d rarely been given the chance to carry it out. She’d liked being up above the world, away from everything. The height still reminds her of the Vuvalini lookout towers. Back then, she could look out towards the Green Place without being observed, imagine them looking back, in spite of the harsh distance of wasteland between them. Now she knows that the Green Place was already gone.

It’s a stretch, but she can just get to the dangling blade. Her prosthetic arm is both help and hindrance, something she can brace against the jagged metal without danger, but a heavy weight on her flesh-and-bone shoulder. The breeze is starting to pick up by the time she’s worked the sail free. She won’t be able to carry it down: the wrenched steel is an awkward shape, with edges sharp enough to cut. The crews know she’s at work up here, so there’s no one below. She shouts a warning, and lets it fall. 

Replacing the blades is a simpler job, familiar work with well-maintained tools. She’s just finishing the second blade when she sees the loose fastening on its neighbour. It hangs straight, from most angles, but it’s not secure: a breath of wind rattles it. When it moves, it nudges against the blade she’s just fixed, putting more pressure on the replacement and straining the balance of the whole structure. It will need fixing in days if she doesn’t do it now. 

It’s come loose in two places, the middle and the outer edge. She has to shin out a little further, manoeuvring her steel hand to hook onto the edge of the frame, where it’s strongest, her legs firmly gripping. This is the biggest of the pumps, right at the edge of the cliff. There’s an added energy to being so high.

“Furiosa – ” She thinks she hears her name, faint on the wind. When she looks down, she spots Max at the top of the stone stairs. Something in the way he’s standing makes her brace herself for an emergency, but if he did call, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it now. He’s just waiting. She can’t read his expression from this distance, not when he’s squinting into the sun, but he’s not trying to catch her attention. Anyway, she needs to work fast. The sail is creaking under her weight as she finds the replacement fastening in her toolbelt. It’s not really dangerous, not really, but there’s an adrenaline from the height and the risk, a buzz that helps her to go faster, to see more clearly. The work must be quick and sure, so it is, her flesh and metal hands reinforcing the weak spots. Done.

She takes her time climbing down. Most accidents happen at the end of highwire jobs, repair workers swinging carelessly down. The work can make you feel invincible, the kind of pride that comes before a fall. The phrase had been Miss Giddy’s, something she’d say after the Vault door closed after Joe’s departure.

So she moves with practised caution, keeping her limbs steady as she gets down the maintenance ladder. When she drops the last metre to the ground, Max is already there, almost in the space she jumps into.

“Furiosa – Furi – I –” The way he hangs on to her almost knocks her off balance. His voice is rough, sliding into a mumble, his cheek against hers. It’s awkward and insistent, right there, without any warning. She has the urge to move freely, now that she’s back on the ground, but he’s wrapped around her, heavy and urgent, getting in her way. Then he lets go, reacting to her tension or just realising how public this is. 

When she looks at him, he’s shaking, his old tremble, something she hasn’t seen in a while. It’s never a good sign, a thing she doesn’t know how to fix, and it’s worse because this space is busy with people, greenthumbs and repair workers. His breath is fast and uneven, coming in little sips of air as he looks at her. She needs to give orders about future maintenance, and Max is still shaking. She can feel herself getting angry, at herself, at him, because she hates seeing him like this and she’s not sure how they got here. The way he looks now, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone by sunset, vanished into the desert. She tries to get a grip on herself.

“I need to report, do you want – ” Her wrist brushes against his, their knuckles bumping together. He takes her hand, and that’s when she gets it, when she realises what this is about. He was scared for her. 

She knows he doesn’t like heights, but it’s not usually a debilitating fear. He doesn’t have vertigo, or the kind of phobia that can make Mel climb down nine winding flights of stairs and back up again rather than use the high gantries, even when her hip is bothering her. Max doesn’t take any pleasure in the skywalks, and he’s careful about the handrails, but he’ll cross. If the situation is urgent, he’ll hurl himself up or off anything: she’s seen him sailing high on a polecat’s pole, or jumping from one rig to another. There’s no risk he won’t take. They’re both starting to realise the difference between taking risks for yourself, and seeing someone else take them. 

The Mothers have always rolled their eyes over Furiosa’s cuts and bruises. Sometimes they get angry, but they know her, know her limits, recognise that there are chances she has to take. They saw her childhood, what there was of it. They taught her to make those choices. She remembers how she feels when Max does something stupidly dangerous out in the field, when he’s reckless about cleaning wounds or eating dubious rations. Or when he just takes off, running away, out in the wasteland, facing unknown threats she finds it all too easy to imagine. She doesn’t know if he trusts his luck or if it’s something darker, the way he doesn’t seem to believe he deserves care. 

Her anger flares, her head miles away from the focused calm of windmill repairs. She could scream, standing there with Max’s hand still in hers. She doesn’t. 

There’s only a little tightness in her voice when she tells Lug what repairs she’s made, and asks him to prepare the new maintenance schedule – he’s ready for the work, it’s good for him to have the experience. Then she nods to Max, tilting her head to suggest they get out of here.

The lift is the quickest way down, easiest on his knee. He lets go of her hand as they get onto the platform, crowded and full of chatter at a busy time of day. His silence shouldn’t be noticeable amid the noise of machinery and other people’s talk. Max doesn’t tend to say much, anyway, but this is a quiet she’s very aware of.

As more people crowd on, they shuffle up on the lift platform. The back of her flesh hand brushes his. He doesn’t press into it, doesn’t push, but adjusts his weight just a little, enough to keep the contact there. She is foolishly aware of it, of this one place on her skin, of the warmth of his body. Feeling builds in her chest, and she doesn’t even know what it is – panic or anger or fear, just a lot of unspoken emotion, things she’s not used to admitting to. She doesn’t know how to deal with this. 

In her room, she bangs the door and locks it, more abruptly than she needs to. When she turns around, his look of longing is like a physical touch. She lets herself fall into it, into him, his arms around her and his face against her shoulder. She’s still tense and angry, but she’s softened almost in spite of herself. After a moment, she lifts her flesh hand to stroke his hair, kissing at his forehead, part apology and part comfort, trying to release the tangle of feeling that’s still sitting under her ribs. 

“I was fine,” she can’t help saying, and feels him stiffen. She ploughs on.

“It looks worse than it is.” She will not apologise for this, but she can hear how defensive she sounds. “It’s necessary.” Max nods. 

“Wasn’t asking you not to.”

She knows that, she does know that. There’s a bubble in her chest, a tension that makes her want to run away, want to hold him tighter, want to fight. 

Being cared for is terrifying. She went thousands of days with no one to mind if she lived or died, assuming they wouldn’t even notice it beyond her use as a part for the Citadel engine. For a brief time, she had been guarded as a precious, expensive thing. After that, her human connections rested on shared service to a god she hated, who encouraged and celebrated reckless damage. Honesty would have seen her shredded for blasphemy. It became part of the wall she built up for herself, using not caring as a weapon, a reason to take the risks she needed to take. There’s an ache to letting that go. 

It’s not that she hasn’t felt this before. She’s dropped so many barriers, letting the girls in, letting Max in. But somehow once is never enough. However many times she crosses the boundary, it can still loom up in front of her, the fear as sharp as it ever was. She feels as if her whole body is blind, a choke in her throat.

“I – I – ” She’s groping for what to say, for how to talk about this, his arms still around her and her hand in his hair. She’s near tears and doesn’t know how she got there, how this could be so close to the surface. 

“C’mere,” Max says, which is ridiculous because they’re already wrapped around each other. But he pulls her closer, pressing his face against her neck. She takes one shaky breath after another, her cheek against his hair and her eyes mostly shut.

As her breathing gets a little more even, she realises he’s murmuring, his lips moving against her shoulder. He's hanging on, but his grip on her keeps changing. He holds her, lets go a little, holds her tight again, never quite settling. She thinks he’s trying not to crowd her, or maybe he can’t acknowledge what he’s feeling. What she’s feeling.

She takes another breath, and just says it.

“I get scared when you go.” 

He nods, his face down but not quite on her shoulder, crumpling in on himself. The words sit there in the air, something she can’t take back. There’s a rush of relief in saying them, with panic waiting to follow.

“I know.” She can only just make out the words. 

“I don’t mean – not – ” She isn’t asking him to stay, she isn’t.

Max nods, too fast. They’re both standing there, tense and awkward, in each other’s space but not properly touching. The silence stretches out. She has things to do, nothing urgent but she shouldn’t be just sitting around. If she can’t even talk to him, at least she could be making herself useful. 

He pulls away, just enough to look at her. He’s still twitchy, hunched in his jacket, but though his eyes are darting they’re always focused on her, on her mouth and her eyes and her collarbone. Her hand is still in his hair, the tufts of it rumpled under her fingers.

Almost warily, telegraphing the movement, he lifts his hand to the back of her head, his palm firm and broad against her scalp. Then he bends his head, still going slow, until their foreheads meet. She feels as much as hears his sigh when she leans into it, the way her own breathing settles into sync with his.

She slides her hand down to the nape of his neck, inside his collar. Max pushes closer, body to body, ducking his head to burrow into her shoulder. She wants her arm off, wants not to be corseted up and held in, wants to breathe more easily.

“Wait, I need…” She reaches for her buckles, fumbling a little. He helps her, supporting the harness as she loosens it, hanging the arm on its hook then turning back to start on her bodice. His arms are already around her, working on the laces at her back. He manages to stay close as he unfastens the corset and drops it on the bench. She can feel him through her shirt, the warmth of his skin. 

For a long time, they just stand there, jangled nerves starting to settle. When he stirs against her shoulder, the edge of his jacket pokes into her, another barrier. She tugs at it.

Taking it off, he nudges her back towards the bed. He presses against her as he takes her clothes off, arms around her even though it means everything takes longer. At last he drops down to work on her boots, leaning against her legs. 

She wants him stripped bare, both of them bare. She pulls at his shirt, urging him on, needing to feel him. He gets his leathers off, the hair of his legs tickling against hers when he stands up again.

It’s not about sex. They’re standing pressed together, his scent in her nostrils and his skin under her hand, raised scars and firm muscle. The touch grounds her, allows her to acknowledge her own need without thinking about it. He’s stroking her sides, slow and steady. She noses at his cheek, her face against his. Maybe like this, for now, it’s possible to be here and present, to be cared for and just accept it, her body craving it and her mind letting the jitters go.

It’s not about sex, until it is. She can feel his cock stirring against her thigh, twitching and filling, the texture of his skin as it warms and hardens, as the blood flows. Her own body responds, a rush of wet between her legs. She wants to be close, wants to be closer. Max sits down, and she’s in his lap. There’s a slight bump to it, his hands moving at once to catch her.

“I got you,” he says, words as instinctive as the movement. Then again, gripping more firmly, “I got you.” She puts her arms tighter around him, feels him settle his hands on her hips, his thighs braced under her. He’s holding her, carrying her, steadying as well as stroking. Her skin prickles at the touch.

He turns and lays her down on the bed, hands strong under her back. But he does it slowly, letting himself take her full weight. When their eyes meet, he drops his gaze, then looks back at her, very deliberate. 

He’s carried her before: hauling her up from the side of the gigahorse, taking her weight in fights. It’s not the first time he’s lifted her on the way to bed. But he’s cradling her now, gently tipping her back so her knees lift as her torso tilts. She’s almost shaky with it, with letting him do it, allowing herself to be moved. She presses her thighs around his waist, feels his murmur.

He’s going so slowly, with a weight of need behind every brush of skin, every slide of his hand and press of his body. He leans in to nuzzle at her shoulder, mouth moving over her skin before pressing closer. 

They’re clamped together, his cock hot under her buttock and his hands on her, her fingers still in his hair. It’s a surprise when he moves down, pulling away just enough to kiss his way over her breasts and belly. He looks up when he reaches her groin, waiting. When she nods, he strokes his hands down to her thighs, firm and greedy, and buries his face between her legs.

He is noisy and so eager, humming with satisfaction as he gets his mouth on her. A jolt of pleasure goes through her, a pulse in her cunt; he purrs, and keeps going.

It’s good, very good, but she can’t come. She loves his abandon, his tongue and his lips, but after those first shudders her body isn’t really responding. It’s so exposed. She’s alone up here, too aware of the work he’s putting in, conscious that her tension is creeping back. He likes taking care of her. She did know that, knows he enjoys her reactions, likes chasing her shivers and moans. Thinking about that now, thinking about him worrying for her, is more than she knows what to do with. 

And of course he realises. He lifts his head, looks up her, mouth wet but no longer smiling. He wants to do this. Why is it so hard to let him?

“Hey.” He’s already climbing up, lying beside her, close but not on top of her or too much in her space. 

“I didn’t, I don’t – ” She stops. She feels frozen again, that bubble of fear back in her belly.

After a moment, Max cautiously puts an arm over her, his hand on her side. She presses into him, the comfort of touching him, her body understanding this even if it’s bafflingly resistant elsewhere. He holds her, lets her burrow into him. She has such a starving need for him, for the solid warmth of his chest and the strength of his arms around her, clinging as tight as she is. 

His hands are rough and soft at once when he strokes her, callouses snagging against her own scars, his fingers sure. He’s making little noises, hums and grunts, the way he’ll sometimes mumble to himself when fixing an engine. She wants to laugh at that, but her mouth is wobbly. She rubs her nose in a circle on his bristly cheek, feels it curve as he smiles. 

Their touches are getting heated again, more hunger than reassurance. She gasps at his thumb on her nipple, his mouth under her jaw. He’s kissing her throat as he strokes downwards, fingers petting over her hipbone towards pubic hair, sending little shivers across her skin. She nudges her legs wider. The noise he makes then is definitely smug.

As his hand strokes lower, he keeps his eyes on her, his breath coming faster. Her heart is pounding, her cunt getting wetter, responding to his fingers. He gives a little growl and pulls her in, holding her firm as his hand works. She can taste herself in his mouth when she kisses him, and only wants to kiss him deeper, her cunt clenching again. His cock twitches against her hip. She moans when she starts to come, a long groan of pleasure and relief. 

He’s petting her again, stroking and soothing, but she wants him inside her, tugging him onto her. He holds her tight, his face in her shoulder and his hands under her back, helping to tilt her hips up as she hooks her legs around him. He gets his knees placed so he can rock into her without too much strain on his bad leg, pushing into her in a long, wet slide. 

She feels stretched and filled and embraced, as close as they can get, skin on skin and flesh deep inside flesh. He doesn’t move for a moment, just holds her, pressing close and heavy until it’s too much and she has to move, hips grinding up for more of him. The noise he makes is almost defenceless, something that makes her hold his head to her shoulder, clutching at him with her hand and her cunt and her thighs. 

There’s a point where their bodies take over, where they can both let go, lost in rhythm and touch. He’s wrapped around her and pumping into her and it’s wonderful, all questions and tensions fading as her focus narrows to just this. Max is gasping when he comes, cradling her close. They’re both sticky and exhausted and shaky, and all she wants to do is cling to him.

When they wash, he strokes the cloth and then the towel over her, tender and thorough. He takes care of her: it’s one of the things he does, when he can, as much as he can. She feels another flutter of panic about it, but it’s good, too. Back in bed, they cuddle together. She knows there are things they’re still not saying, not unsaying. She rests her forehead against his shoulder, feels him snuggle in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Max's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, for people not comfortable with heights: jump to "catching her as she lands" if you'd rather not read about Furiosa up the windmill. There is recurring mention of fear of heights in this chapter.

Max had known Furiosa was working on the windpump. She’d mentioned the broken blades, and lately she’s been tinkering with the pump regulator, trying to make the most of the windspeed. Somehow he’d imagined her firmly on the ground, fine-tuning blade repairs with the metal crew. It’s not until he sees her, up in the air, that he realises what she’d had in mind.

She’s silhouetted against the sun, her face in shadow, but he’d know her anywhere – not just the cropped hair and metal arm, but the long grace of her body, the easy way she moves. She climbs across the windmill as if it were nothing, as if it were safe. And as he watches, she swings herself further out, onto the frail edge of the pump’s circle.

“Furiosa…” Her name is out of his mouth before he knows he’s going to say it. She’s slender but both strong and tall: he knows how much she weighs. This can’t be safe. He sees her head turn, looking towards him, and he could curse himself for distracting her now.

He stands frozen, unable to look away, as she turns back to fiddle with one of the metal pieces, fixing and correcting. He thinks he hears the structure creak, knows he sees the circle of blades turn a little. If the wind picks up, it will carry her round on the spinning circle, higher and higher, out towards the edge of the cliff. Even falling to the base of the windmill could kill her. 

He can’t move until he sees her head back down to the maintenance ladder – a rickety thing, to his mind, though it’s less terrifying than the circle of sails. He’s already running towards her, catching her as she lands.

He’s almost shaking with the relief of holding her, of touching her, of knowing that she’s okay. She’s slightly flushed from the work, a glow of sweat on her skin. Her chest rises and falls, her heart beating, her body alive and alert. He mumbles her name again, another way of hanging on to her.

But she’s tense under his hands, not responding, not holding him. He has to make himself let go, his own muscles stiff and reluctant, the movement harsh in his body. He doesn’t want this much air between them. It’s not as if he could shield her from the wasteland, but he already misses the feeling of her, of knowing that she’s safe in his arms.

Heights aren’t good. Max has fallen off too many of them, has seen too many people fall and not get up. 

He’s aware that for some people they can be a kind of pleasure. The best and strongest of the polecats love the air, love their work. He can’t imagine how they get past the sickening dizzy feeling, the wrongness of the ground being so far away. It’s something he can push through when he has to, but he hates seeing other people take the risk, the powerlessness of watching.

So it took him a while to work out that Furiosa can enjoy being up high. He realised when he saw her running across a gantry, as lightly as if she was on the ground, all exhilaration and speed. He had picked his way carefully after her, going slow and hanging on to the railing. Sometimes he can bring himself to admire it, the way he admires her skill in battle. Sometimes. It gets harder to do, the higher she goes.

She’s looking at him now, a slight frown on her face.

“I need to report, do you want – ” Almost without realising it, he’s taken her hand, still craving the reassurance of touch. She stops, seems to refocus as one of the repair crew comes over with questions about the work on the pump. Giving orders, she’s as efficient as ever, but there’s an edge to her voice, to how she’s standing, as if she’s keeping exasperation under tight control. By the time she turns back to Max, she’s practically giving off sparks. There’s a strange relief to it, because an angry Furiosa is fierce and alive and entirely herself. That doesn’t solve his other problems.

He knows enough to see that she gets angry where he would run. He wants to run now, almost as much as he wants to hold her. Is it easier to be out in the desert, wondering what danger she faces, or to be right here, watching it? Is she angry because he’s restricting her – and he isn’t, he wouldn’t, but then he remembers that feral bit of him that badly wants to protect her – or because there’s something else she can’t handle? There are some storms even she can’t command.

Whatever it is, she’s ready to go: she tilts her head at Max, leads the way to the lift. Their hands part in the shuffle of getting onto the platform.

A crowd of workers push onto the lift after them. Moving up the platform, Furiosa steps closer to Max, her hand brushing his. It’s accidental, not a deliberate touch, but he can’t help shifting his weight to keep the contact there. They stand like that, all the way down, until the lift stops and she steps away.

Following her, he can see the stiffness in her shoulders, the anger still there. It’s in the way she bangs open the door to her room, the clatter as she locks it behind them. But when she turns to him, looks at him, they fall into each other, bodies fitting together as if by instinct. 

She’s stroking his hair, kissing his forehead, close and tender and here. It’s not until she speaks that the tension returns.

“I was fine.” He does know that, knows she knows what she’s doing, though he also knows the image of her swinging further into danger will come back to him at bad moments. “It looks worse than it is. It’s necessary.”

“Wasn’t asking you not to.” He wasn’t. There are risks she has to take. He accepts that, but his instincts keep making their own demands.

“I – I –” She’s shaking, wired with feeling, pushing at a limit he can’t see. 

“C’mere.” Even standing close, they’re both holding back, guarded in the face of whatever this is. When he draws her nearer, she lets herself be held, lets him press his face to her neck. He’s trying to keep a balance, changing his grip on her, making himself let go rather than just pushing into her. He’s still close enough to feel the deep breath she takes, the way she braces herself to speak.

“I get scared when you go.”

It’s like a blow and a relief at once, having it said, out in the open.

“I know.” His head is down by her shoulder, too close to her, but lifting it means looking at her and he doesn’t think he can.

“I don’t mean – not – ” He nods, knowing what she means. She’d called him reliable once, but she’s far too intelligent to expect that to last. He does what he can. He knows it isn’t enough, knows it hurts when he lets people down. Part of him wants to get out of there, to escape from this conversation, but it’s hard to think of stepping away from her, of letting go. They stand there, unsure. When he lifts his head, he can’t sustain her gaze, keeps looking away and looking back. Her hand is still in his hair.

Carefully, trying not to go too fast, he lifts his hand to the back of her head, leaning in until their foreheads meet. It’s the gesture she greets him with, the way she’s welcomed him as part of her kin. It’s forgiveness and comfort and connection, and it still terrifies him to offer it, to ask for it. He sighs when she leans in, sighs again when her hand slides to the nape of his neck. He pushes closer, body to body, burrowing into her. She responds, so close that her harness digs into him.

“Wait, I need…” She’s reaching for the buckles of her bodice, trying to get it out of the way. He takes the metal arm as it comes loose, eager to help, to get nearer. When she tugs at his jacket, he’s quick to respond, staying close as he undresses her and then himself. There is such comfort in touching her, bodies together, skin to skin.

Not only comfort. His cock is stirring, responding to her scent and warmth and closeness. He wants her, loves seeing her breath come faster, her nipples hardening. The bed is right there so he sits down, drawing her with him, her balance tipping as she lands in his lap. Without thinking, he grabs her, righting her before she can tilt too far.

“I got you,” he says. As soon as the words are out, they feel huge. He takes a deep breath, grips her more firmly, and makes himself say them again, wishing he could make a promise of it. He’s trying to guard her from a fall that only happened in his head.

He always wants to get close after danger. They both do, though he’s learned that they can have very different ideas of what is dangerous. She’s in his lap, in his arms; after seeing her in the air, he’s even more aware of taking her weight. He’d wanted her desperately that day on the gantry, taking her back to her room and fucking against the door, getting down on his knees and eating her out until she whimpered.

She is strong, and solid, and real, and holding her is intoxicating. He likes lifting her for sex. It’s about feeling his own strength, but feeling hers too: the weight and the power of her body, the way she trusts him with herself. Turning to lay her on the bed, he moves slowly, delaying the moment when he sets her down, his hands under her back and her legs still loosely around him. When their eyes meet, he drops his gaze, but makes himself look back at her, at her flushed face and her dark eyes. It’s as if he can see her letting her guard down, see her baring herself for him. He can’t help murmuring when she presses her thighs tighter around his waist.

He’s nuzzling at her shoulder, stroking and pressing against her, kissing his way down her body. She is not fragile, but so gracefully made, poised as well as powerful. He loves the fine grain of her soft skin, the curves of her body. Her thighs look fuller when he’s down between them. He looks up, waiting for her nod, then buries his face between her legs. 

After all his fears, this is something he knows, something he can do for her. He can feel her responding, twitching under his mouth; he purrs at it, at the sense of connection. 

Then it goes. Something isn’t working: her reactions aren’t right, aren’t there. When he looks up, she’s frowning slightly, something unrelaxed in her face, in the line of her shoulders. He doesn’t think it’s a bad memory. She’s not pushing him away, or freezing in panic. But this isn’t what he’d wanted to give her. 

He moves back up, trying not to touch her, in case he’s wrong to think this isn’t panic.

“Hey,” he tries, very careful.

“I didn’t, I don’t – ” She stops, biting her lip, baffled. 

When it’s clear that she isn’t going to say anything more, he puts a cautious hand on her side. At once, she presses into him, pushing against him, sighing in relief when he puts his arms around her. 

He’s murmuring as he strokes her, hums and grunts, trying to coax and comfort her with all the things he doesn’t have words for. She rubs her nose against his cheek, and the sweetness of it melts him.

He’s wrapped around her, still stroking her, almost moaning at the touch of her nipple, firm under his hand. He kisses her throat, feels her gasp. When his hand moves down, curving over her hip and heading for her cunt, she opens her legs for him, welcoming him in. 

It’s getting easier to look at her, to watch her as he strokes. He loves seeing her, the way her face scrunches and relaxes, the relief and pleasure in her voice when she comes. He doesn’t want to rush any of this, goes on petting and gentling her. It’s Furiosa who tugs him onto her, urgent and heated, putting her arms around him and pulling him in.

It’s breathtaking. He doesn’t move for a moment, deep inside her, holding her tight. It’s as if he could hang onto this, cradling her and losing himself in her in the same moment. Just as he thinks that, she shifts under him, hips pushing up, gripping him tighter. It’s so much, more of everything, touch and scent and abandon. Clinging to her, he feels her hand in his hair and her body wrapped tight around him.

They’re fucking long and slow and deep, as close as they can get, until they’re both almost dizzy with it, lost in each other’s bodies. Furiosa is holding him, letting herself be held. 

He can’t stop touching her afterwards, washing and towelling her, overcome with the pleasure of seeing her clean and warm and happy. When they curl up together, they don’t spoon. She wants to face him, though it takes longer to arrange their limbs in a position that’s actually comfortable. He’s reluctant to let go, even for a moment, which makes everything take longer. Her arm is around his waist, one knee nudged between his, helping to support his bad leg. She fidgets a little, getting all the angles just right, both of them snuggling in. 

Once, she lifts her head, as if she’s going to speak. She has so many more words than he does, but it doesn’t make her any better at talking about this. The moment passes, nothing said. She burrows her face against his shoulder, close and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prequel to the other two chapters: I wanted to write that day on the gantry ™. So I did. 
> 
> Jump to "After that slow, limping progress" if you want to avoid descriptions of heights.

They’re up in the gardens, the day he realises she has a very, very different attitude to heights. The day is mild and cloudy, the sun not too fierce, the wind not too scouring. Max can remember when weather like this was called dull, but now it’s treasured, a brief and precious time when the wasteland isn’t even trying to kill you.

He and Furiosa had been checking an irrigation pump – a task as boring and as beautiful as the weather, the peaceful maintenance of a decently-made system. There could be no greater sign of the Citadel’s wealth. She had even had spares ready if anything needed to be replaced, but there was no sign of rust, nothing wearing through. 

They finish the checks early, strolling back to the lift along the cliff path. The orchards are nearing harvest time, fruit small but growing healthily. Max wonders how many more days before the picking season would start, even lets himself think that perhaps he might be here for it this time. Then Furiosa lets out a whoop beside him, starts waving. 

He startles, though her voice had been bright and cheerful. They’re on the path that follows the line of the cliff edge, leading past the skywalks before looping back towards the lifts. This is the place where the rock spires stand closest together, the narrowest span between any of the towers, so even Max can see that it makes sense to build shortcuts. Furiosa had been waving and calling to Gilly, clearly visible on the other side. It’s hardly any distance, though there’s a long, long drop in between.

Gilly is moving away from them, must have missed Furiosa’s call. Perhaps the breeze had muffled it, or perhaps she was preoccupied – though that’s unusual, since the Vuvalini woman has a wastelander’s sharpened survival senses. He knew Furiosa had been meaning to speak to Gilly, she’d mentioned consulting her about a new scouting patrol. So he’s not surprised when she calls again, walking more briskly towards the cluster of gantries. As the other woman keeps moving, heading away from them, Furiosa picks up speed, running right out onto the skywalk.

She’s sprinting, running high in the air on the gantry. She doesn’t even hold on to the handrails, though she’s holding her arms out wide, ready to grab on if she needs to. Max can’t bear to look, can’t look away as she runs across, light and free and beautiful as a bird in flight. She reaches the other side in a rush. In seconds, she catches with Gilly, starts talking. Even from this distance, he can see the energy of the conversation, catch the pleasure in her voice.

Max swallows, takes a deep breath, and steps onto the gantry, ready to follow her across. 

He doesn’t know how she could run. The skywalk is solid enough, he supposes, sturdy and well-maintained. It still has a faint but noticeable sway underfoot, and the knowledge of all that empty air beneath him. It’s as much as he can do to walk, one step at a time, leading with his good leg. He holds the rail tight, sliding his hand along then gripping again, the rope rough against his palm.

After that slow, limping progress, it’s a deep relief to feel grass under his feet, solid earth and rock. His heart is beating faster than it should, as if he were the one who had been running.

By the time he comes up with Furiosa and Gilly, they’ve finished their discussion. Gilly nods to him, heads on her way. Furiosa turns back to meet him, her smile as bright as the sun on her metal arm.

It’s more than courage, he realises, more than fearlessness. There’s an energy to her that he recognises, something like her fierceness in battle, the poise she shows when sparring. That sense of movement is still in her body: a blazing assurance, power lightly held. It dawns on him that she must like the air, that she commands space up here as easily as she did on the road. Realising that, he knows just how much he wants her.

“Can we go?” His voice is rusty, hoarse with need. He doesn’t have to explain. Her face changes, eyes locking onto him, suddenly intent. Her teasing look has faded, shifting into hunger. At least crossing had brought them to the tower where her room is, just a few floors down. As much as he wants to fuck her right now, he needs to be somewhere safe. 

“Yeah.” She sounds husky, her gaze dark. 

They don’t touch on the way down, but he keeps looking at her, at the hollow of her throat and the line of her thighs, the way the muscle of her arm flexes with the sway of her shoulders. He has to concentrate on walking, favouring his bad leg, desperately aware of his hardening cock. It takes forever to open the door of her room. Fumbling with the lock, Furiosa is just within reach, close enough that he can feel the heat of her body.

When at last they’re inside, the door slammed shut, he pushes her up against it, pressing into her. She widens her stance as she leans back, tugging him in. Her metal hand lands firm on his bum, urging their hips together. His mouth is already open and wet on her collarbone, sucking his way up her neck until he finds her pulse, feels her moan. He just grinds for a moment, lost in her, in feeling her alive and active against him. 

The friction of their hips through leather is a delicious tease: not nearly enough, but if they go on like this he’s at risk of coming in his pants. He has to make himself stop, pulling away enough to get his hand to her trousers. She’s ahead of him, undoing her belts – she has such a lot of belts, knows exactly how to get herself unfastened as fast as possible. He’s already reaching between her legs, stroking over damp hair, feeling her twitch as he parts her lips to start fingering her. 

They’re both impatient, messy and greedy. She’s pushing herself into his touch, and reaching for his fastenings at the same time. He can see her eyes darkening, pupils huge, her breath hot against his cheek as his fingers curl. There’s a clumsy moment when she’s twitching her hips and trying to get his cock out, arching her back when he thumbs at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt. Finally, finally, they get lined up. She bats his hand away with her flesh fingers, tugging his hip with her metal hand. She lets out a gasping moan as he slides into her, her cunt tight and wet and already twitchy around him.

He wants to slow down, to savour it, but she grinds up to meet him with a tight squeeze that pulls a gasp out of him. Then he’s fucking into her, fast and hard, clinging onto her. Her flesh hand is on his neck, sliding up into his hair and then clenching, a tug that sends a shiver right down his back. She does it again and he groans, panting at the feel of her, her body powerful and here. It’s as ardent and animal as the way she fights, the way she ran.

Max gets his fingers back to her clit, stroking hard, feeling her shudder. He’s trying to make this last, but her hand is back in his hair and he can’t hold on any more. Tipping over the edge is like falling, falling into her, a way of letting go without leaving the ground. He comes with something like a sob, wrapped around her, hanging on tight.

The relief of it goes through him like a wave, leaving his muscles heavy and relaxed. She’s kissing him, his cheek and his eyebrow, nuzzling wherever she can reach. He can’t help murmuring at it, at the softness of her touches, of her hand in his hair.

He knows she hasn’t come. They’re standing pressed together, both breathing hard, his fingers still on her clit. 

“Want to eat you out.” The noise she makes is something between a gasp and a whine. He pulls out of her very carefully, eyes meeting hers to be sure she’s okay with it as he gets down to his knees, ignoring the creak of his brace and a twinge from his bad leg. He can’t help nosing at her, at the sweat on her inner thigh, at her wet curls. 

When he starts to lick, he can taste the salt of his own come, lapping her clean until all he can taste is her. When he slides a finger into her, she’s shivery from fucking, so responsive when he finds the right places to press and stroke. She comes quickly, so he gets his other hand to her hipbone, holding her steady so he can work her over again, wanting never to stop. His knee is already protesting, and he almost welcomes the reminder that this is real, that even in the wasteland they can have this.

She’s whimpering, her thighs trembling, tugging his hair at last to let him know she’s had enough. Max is panting, his mouth wet and the taste of her still on his tongue when he looks up at her. She’s flushed and sweaty, looks as wrecked as he feels. Then she smiles.

“There – there was a bed right there,” she points out. They’re both almost too breathless to laugh.

“C’mon,” she says, reaching to pull him up, but his knee is bad and hers are shaky and somehow she slides down the door into a heap, leathers tangled round her ankles. She’s still giggling, her face soft with laughter. 

When they’re face to face, she puts her hand out to cup his cheek. “Are you okay?” He is and he isn’t. He doesn’t know how to explain, the fear and the wonder of seeing her, of the risks she takes so lightly. Instead, he tips his head in to rest his forehead against hers, exhausted and relieved. She puts her arms around him, awkwardly huddled on the floor with her metal prosthetic heavy across his shoulder. Max hums, and holds her tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
